


Make Damn Sure

by eyeslikestarlight



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Humanstuck, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikestarlight/pseuds/eyeslikestarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s like no one you’ve ever met before. She’s a wild animal, some sort of leopard or jaguar perhaps, or maybe she’s a spider, slowly building her web around you until you’re trapped. She’s thunder and lightning, ripping through the sky and announcing her presence with a booming roar that demands your attention. She’s a tornado tearing her way through the land, through your life, through your heart, and there’s no escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Damn Sure

_march_

The bar is unusually crowded for a Tuesday night. It’s probably got something to do with the band that’s playing, but you don’t pay them much attention as you weave through the crowd to the bar, where you nab the one available stool. You just want to order a drink or six and drown your sorrows like the pathetic fool you are.

After telling the bartender what you’d like, your eyes absently scan the room, taking in the sights and sounds without participating; you’re just fine playing the outside observer tonight.

That is, until she catches your eye.

Her hair is an unnatural shade of black; a sure sign that she’s dyed it that way. It’s long and loosely wavy, with a few streaks of bright blue, the same shade as the paint on both her nails and her lips. She has an eyebrow piercing and several going up her ear, and is wearing a thin fitted black leather jacket. She’s sitting a few seats down the bar from you, and two thoughts strike you at once as you stare—she’s absolutely fucking intimidating, and you absolutely cannot leave unless you’ve at least tried to speak to her.

But what the fuck are you supposed to say to a girl like that? You can’t ask her what her sign is, even if it’s delivered in a purely ironic manner; she’d probably punch you in the face. As you sit and contemplate your possibilities, the band starts playing a song that you register as familiar somewhere in the back of your mind, and she picks her head up and looks at the stage.

Apparently it’s caught her interest enough to make her get up and move closer, and you start to worry that you’ll lose her in the crowd and miss your opportunity, so you get up as well and aim to intercept her as she heads towards you, and maybe you’re drunker than you thought or maybe it’s entirely the fault of the douchebag who accidentally shoulders you _hard_ as he pushes by you, but there goes your drink all over her black combat boots.

It could’ve been worse, you tell yourself, it could’ve been her shirt or something, but the thought isn’t really making you feel better as she glares at you with a look that says, _are you fucking kidding me?_

“The fuck is your problem?” she snarls, and she’s several inches shorter than you but the way she holds herself makes it seem like she’s towering over you.

You want to apologize, you open your mouth to stammer out a pathetic “sorry” or two, but the words that come out instead are, “It’s not like those boots aren’t pretty damn distressed already.”

Her blue lips are set in a hard line as she raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, they’re meant to look sorta beat up, right? Maybe this’ll just add to the vintage look,” you say quickly, hoping desperately that you’re not digging your own grave.

She lets out a hmph, and maybe she respects the fact that you’re not giving in and apologizing because she seems to calm down just a little bit. Still, she crosses her arms and gives you a judgmental look. “Sure, maybe if it was a remotely respectable drink. Now I’m gonna be walking around smelling like a fruity asshole. You’ve got to be kidding me with that shit.”

You frown and look down at what remains of your (admittedly sort of feminine) drink, then back up at her. “There’s nothin’ wrong with my drink.”

“Right,” she responds drily, raising her voice over the loud music behind you, then takes the glass without another word and replaces it with her beer. “Do us all a favor and stop being such an embarrassment.”

Her words are harsh, but there doesn’t seem to be any real malicious intent behind them, and despite the fact that she’s definitely scarier now than when you first saw her, you’re strangely even more attracted to her.

At any rate, she definitely just issued you a challenge by handing you that beer, and there’s no way you’re gonna fuck it up, so you take a long chug and even though it’s one of the worst things you’ve tasted you resist the urge to make a disgusted face when you tilt the glass back down.

“That was absolute filth,” you announce defiantly, shoving the glass back at her.

She lets out a cackle and pulls her hands back, refusing to take it from you. “My mother always told me not to judge a book by its cover, but you really are as much of a pretentious douchebag as you look.”

There’s a playful smirk on her face, so you don’t really take her words to heart.  Instead, you throw her a smirk of your own. “An’ my mother told me not to take drinks from strangers, but here we are. I wouldn’t be surprised if you just drugged me or somethin’. There are better ways a’ gettin’ me to go home with you, ya know.”

She makes a disgusted face. “Ugh, please. I have much better taste than fruity hipster boys with purple highlights in their hair.”

“Like some punk-rock princess with blue streaks ‘stead of purple is any better,” you retort.

“Punk-rock princess, yeah?” she laughs. “Does that make you my garage band king?”

You smile wryly and nod. “You could tell me why you just don’t fit in…”

“…and how I’m gonna be something?” she finishes with a grin.

The fact that you basically just spoke-sang at each other makes you stupidly happy.

She looks you up and down for a moment, like she’s trying to make a decision, and it seems any annoyance at the spill has been thankfully replaced by something that looks like amusement. Finally, she holds her free hand out and says, “The punk-rock princess goes by the name Vriska, but “your majesty” works as well.”

“Ha! If either of us is gonna be “your majesty,” it’s me,” you protest.

“Nice try, but seeing as I doubt you’ve actually got a garage band, you don’t really qualify,” she answers.

You frown defiantly. “An’ how would you know a thing like that? For all you know about me, I might be the lead singer of a band.”

Vriska doesn’t really buy it, of course, and doesn’t even bother to reply. Instead she just quirks an eyebrow and stares at you expectantly until you roll your eyes and give in.

“Fine, I guess you can call me Eridan,” you sigh, feigning annoyance.

A satisfied smile spreads across her face. “So pleased to meet you, Eridan,” she says with exaggerated sweetness.

“An’ you, Vris,” you reply in kind, going as far as to kiss her hand in your mock-politeness.

“Vris _ka_ ,” she corrects, swatting your cheek lightly before pulling her hand back.

“Right, Vris,” you nod.

She fixes you with a look, and you continue to not correct yourself, so she eventually shakes her head and resumes her sweet act.

“May I have this dance, Eri _dumb_?” she smiles, holding out her hand and giving a slight bow in the most ironic way possible.

There’s only one proper response, and you deliver: “I’d be honored, Vris,” accompanied by half a curtsy as you take her hand and follow her into a messy crowd of drunken fools.

As it turns out, dancing ends up being closer to jumping and thrashing around ____ the crowd in front of the stage, screaming the words of the covers and making up your own words for the band’s originals. They’re not half bad, but in all honesty your attention isn’t really focused on them.

The two of you make several drink runs, and Vriska forces you into more beer. By the end of the band’s set, you can’t really see straight, but it’s fine because she’s just as messed up as you are, and when you decide to call it a night, she figures she should be the gentleman and decides to walk you home. (your hopes are so high that her kiss might kill you)

And then it seems she forgets to leave, following you into the elevator and down the hallway. She’s on top of you before you can even get the door open. You reflect on how lucky you are as she presses her body into yours, and then all coherent thought vanishes as she slips her tongue between your lips.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_may_

She’s sitting alone at the bar, halfway through her fifth beer. You watch from a distance, trying to find the right moment to strike, the right words to say. The lump in your throat won’t go away, but you try to swallow it down with a long gulp of liquid courage.

Eventually you give in and slide onto the barstool next to her. She doesn’t look up at you, but you know she can see you.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she says before taking a sip.

You nod. “I know.” But words are just words, and both of you know that you’ll be leaving this place together tonight.

Her gaze falls on your drink, then finally travels over to you. “I see you’ve graduated past the girly drinks.” She pinches your cheek and smiles mockingly. “I’m so proud.”

“Only to avoid your incessant teasin’, but it seems there’s no escapin’ that.”

“Damn right,” she nods before returning to her own drink. “And you love it.”

“Not as much as you love the charm an’ grace with which I handle it.” You’re only half serious, and it earns a snort of laughter from her.

“You’re funny,” she says.

“I try,” you answer.

She drains her glass and calls the bartender over, ordering a round of shots. You hold yours up and ask, “And what will we toast to?”

“To dirty little secrets?” she suggests.

“To damn regrets?” you counter.

“To testosterone boys and harlequin girls?”

“To the reckless and the brave?”

She grins a little. “To all of the above?”

You smile and clink your shot glass against hers. “To all of the above.”

Both of you down the shots, and it’s not long before she’s calling for another round. And before you know it, the two of you are stumbling out of the bar, hanging onto each other and giggling as you hail a cab and tumble inside.

It’s hard to keep your hands off of her, but it’s only a five-minute drive to your apartment, so you manage to hold off until you’re inside the elevator, where she pushes you against the wall and catches your lips between hers the second the doors slide shut.

You lose yourself in the feeling, in the softness of her skin, in the scent of her perfume. The influence of alcohol is making everything fuzzy, but when she touches you it’s sharp and vivid, cutting through the fog in the most delicious way. Your hands are resting on her hips as she runs hers through your hair, messing up your perfect styling job, but you’re so far past the point of caring about that right now.

The ding and the sliding of doors alert you that you’ve reached your floor, and she grabs you by the wrist and tugs you out. Halfway down the hallway it’s your turn to pin her, and she allows you a few kisses before urging you towards your door. You dig through your pockets for your key and fumble with it in the lock as she kisses at the back of your neck.

As soon as you push inside she’s on you again, her hands trailing down your chest as she slowly unbuttons your shirt. You kick the door shut behind you and guide her in the direction of the bedroom.

“We really shouldn’t do this,” she breathes, pressed up against the wall next to the door.

“I know,” you answer as you turn the doorknob and pull her in.

You land on the bed first and she falls on top of you, attacking your mouth as she opens your shirt all the way and pulls it off, then breaks away and allows you to pull hers over her head.

“V-Vris,” you gasp as she sucks on your neck, and you have a feeling you’re gonna need to wear a scarf tomorrow.

She murmurs your name against your skin, and it sends a shiver through your body as your head falls backwards to allow her easier access. When she speaks, her lips brushing along your neck, you’re reminded that her voice is the most sensual sound you’ve ever heard.

“Are you sure you want this?”

It’s nearly impossible to navigate through your thoughts, these sensations, the way your breathing has suddenly become irregular, especially as her fingers run lightly along your waistline and dip teasingly underneath before making their way towards your belt, but you eventually manage to form a coherent response.

“More than anythin’.”

She picks her head up and looks at you with those piercing blue eyes and smiles. You’re not sure what the smile says, but if you weren’t three sheets to the wind, it may have been mildly worrying. Instead, you grab the back of her neck and pull her down to reattach her lips to yours, the concept of regret not even crossing your mind.

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_july_

She refuses to call it dating, but that’s pretty much what you’re doing, minus the label. The two of you actually see each other outside of the bar on a pretty regular basis. You go for walks in the park, and one day she takes you to her place, which is smaller than yours but still comfortable. You actually have intelligent, sober conversations, which are still inevitably filled with the usual snarky banter. Every now and then she give you permission to hold her hand. She even lets you take her out to dinner once or twice.

One night, your bodies curled together on your couch, you whisper that you love her. She tells you, “I can’t do this,” and walks out.

But she’s back the next day, murmuring apologies between soft kisses.

You’re pretty sure commitment scares the shit out of her, and at first, you think you can deal with that. And then time passes, and as you fall harder and harder for this ridiculous vibrant whirlwind of a girl, you can’t imagine yourself being happy with anyone else, and it kills you that you don’t know if she feels the same.

She’s like no one you’ve ever met before. She’s a wild animal, some sort of leopard or jaguar perhaps, or maybe she’s a spider, slowly building her web around you until you’re trapped. She’s thunder and lightning, ripping through the sky and announcing her presence with a booming roar that demands your attention. She’s a tornado tearing her way through the land, through your life, through your heart, and there’s no escape.

But you don’t want to escape. You want to stay wrapped up in her arms. You want to be able to keep her, hold her forever, but she is always in motion, and you’re afraid that you can feel her slipping through your fingers.

You’re terrified that one day you’ll wake up and she’ll be gone, just like that, without even leaving a trail for you to follow.

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_september_

Every now and then, she vanishes. She won’t answer her phone or any other form of messaging, she won’t go out and she doesn’t show up at your apartment, and for a few days it’s like she’s gone. But then she’s back, and acting like she never left. You’ve asked her where she goes, why she’s doing this, but she just smiles and kisses you until you’ve lost your train of thought.

But lately, three days has become five, and five has become seven. When her most recent disappearance pushes nine days, you file a missing persons report.

They find her camped out in a remote corner of Central Park. She shrugs and tells them, “I just wanted to see if I’d be able to do it.”

The police escort her home, and you show up just as they’re leaving, stand in her doorway and look at her.

“What?” she asks, blinking innocently.

“The fuck is wrong with you, Vris?” you finally snap. “Do you know how fuckin’ dangerous that was? You could’a been mugged, or worse.”

She rolls her eyes and turns away from you, fiddling with some papers on her counter. “I was only there for one night, it’s seriously no big deal.”

“An’ where were you the rest of the nine days you been missin’, hm? Just hangin’ out at home, I suppose?” you growl, standing up straight and taking a few steps inside. Predictably, she doesn’t answer you, just shuffles her papers like they’re some top-secret important documents.

“I’ve been thinking about taking a cross-country road trip,” she says absently, looking them over, and you realize they’re travel brochures. “What do you think?”

“Damnit, Vris, you can’t keep doin’ this!” you yell in frustration, banging your fist against the wall. She puts the papers down and slowly looks up at you, her expression neutral. At least you have her attention now.

“You can’t just keep disappearin’ without any warnin’, without any announcement or reassurance. It scares the fuck outta me! You gotta tell me these things!” you half yell, half plead.

Her face darkens as she turns to face you fully. “And why do I ‘ _gotta’_ tell you anything? You’re not my boyfriend, remember?”

It stings, her continued insistence to deny your relationship. You throw up your hands in defeat. “Then what am I to you, really?”

For one of the first times since you’ve met, you seem to have rendered her speechless. She opens her mouth and closes it, trying to find the right words, but failing.

“Do you care about me at all?” you continue, almost begging now.

“What kind of question is that? Of course I do, you stupid asshole,” she scowls.

“Then why don’t you wanna be with me?”

She sighs and runs her hands over her face. “It has nothing to do with you, Eridan. I’m just…not a relationship person. I need my space.”

“I could give it to you,” you tell her, even though it’s useless. You’ve had this conversation before.

“You say that now, but I can’t even do my own thing for a few days without you freaking out and calling the damn police,” she bites.

“I was worried about you!” you protest, raising your voice.

“I know how to take care of myself!” she retorts, raising hers as well.

Your hands ball into fists at your side, and your eyes may or may not be a little wet. You look down at the ground and squeeze them shut, doing your best to reel yourself in. “I don’t wanna lose you,” you admit quietly.

Vriska goes quiet. A moment passes, and next thing you know, she’s wrapping her arms around you and burying her face in your chest, holding you tight. You pull her closer and pray for time to stop, because even though she’s holding on to you with everything she’s got, you’re afraid that she’s already gone.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_october_

It’s night, and you lie together in your bed, just not too close. (how close is too close?) Both of you are half clothed, the sheets an abandoned tangle of fabric at your feet.

You want to pull her close, fold her into you, kiss her cheek and smell her hair and just breathe in time with her. But you can’t do any of those things.

The desire to hold her, to intertwine her fingers with your own (the awful edges where you end and she begins) is _burning_ , but it’s not what she wants. She’s gotten so distant that you barely even know who she is anymore, and you wouldn’t be remotely surprised if tonight was it.

And then she rolls into your side, curling up against you. She lays a hand on your cheek and kisses you gently. You wrap an arm around her and pull her even closer.

She rests her forehead against yours and looks into your eyes. “Have you ever wished for an endless night?” she whispers.

You close your eyes and breathe her in, not sure if you’re able to answer that without crying.

Tomorrow morning, there’s a letter on her pillow.

 _Eridan,_

_I’m so sorry. I really am. But I just can’t stay here anymore. New York may be the city of opportunity for some, but not for me. I feel like a bird trapped in a cage, staring out the window at the big, wide world, but unable to fly away. I need to get out of this cage._

_Whatever you do, don’t blame yourself, okay? You may be an awful hipster douchebag, but you’re the most wonderful awful hipster douchebag I’ve ever been lucky enough to know, and you didn’t do anything wrong._

_I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m leaving today. Maybe I’ll drive north, through the snow, or maybe south, towards the sun. I’m not sure if I’ll see you again. But I’ll never forget about you._

_Vriska_

In the bottom right-hand corner, just above her name, there’s a tiny, scribbled out line. You’re able to make out four words, four words she’s never said.

They say, “I love you, Eridan.”

You clutch the letter to your chest and sob.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_december_

Two months, one private investigator, and a large sum of your parent’s money later, you have an address. A few scrawled lines on a piece of paper, clutched between your shaking fingers like a lifeline, like it might burst into flames if you let it go.

The guy warns you that she’s on the move, that she could be somewhere else before you can even do something with that address. You thank him quietly and nearly sprint home, where you write a ridiculous number of letters, until your whole desk is covered with crumpled up balls of paper. In the end, there’s only one that doesn’t disgust you.

_~~Vriska~~ _

_Vris,_

_I wanna fly with you._

Two weeks later, an envelope appears with handwriting that you’ve read a thousand times. You can feel yourself trembling as you break it open and read its contents.

 _Eridumb,_

_California. 94124._

_Can you find your wings?_

You read it seven or eight times, wondering if it’s real, if this is a dream, if you’re hallucinating. And then you walk calmly to your bedroom and pull a suitcase out of the closet.

You’re gonna make damn sure that she won’t ever get too far from you.

**Author's Note:**

> I got a little carried away, and there's an absurd number of song references. How many did you catch?


End file.
